A list of things I want to tell you/ask you not unlike the usual things I tell you/ask you except this time in list format
1. Yummy roadtrips. Let's hit the road, Jack, or Clare.
2. If not the road, perhaps a ride on Amtrak would be suitable. We can share a sleeper car. Hmmm?
3. Why do I know more baby shower games than my coworkers? They have babies for crying out loud.
4. I do not live in the city. I promise to stop saying I do. It's a lie. I apologize to the city for this lie. I will do my best to perpetuate it no longer.
5. More silliness. Less of the other stuff.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
un conversation avec le pantalon bleu
Blue. Pants.
What's wrong pants? Are you stained? soiled? too short? too long? Are you pleated pants trapped in the body of flat front pants?
Is that why you look so blue? Is it because even as a pair you feel alone somehow?
Poor blue pants.
Let me try. I put you on one leg at a time. You seem ok to me. I'm not sure how to match you to my other clothes.
Oh. No. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you were unique...er...special.
No. No. Of course my butt doesn't make you look fat. You look great. I'm serious. I'm not even thinking about khaki.
I didn't say khaki. I said, er, I er.
Don't go blue pants. PLease. Blue is part of your mystique. It's more than a color or simple sadness. You are brooding, intense, artistic.
Oh. Blue pants. Don't cry. Please. No one likes wet pants. Not no one. I'm sorry.
OH. Blue.
Blue. Pants.
What's wrong pants? Are you stained? soiled? too short? too long? Are you pleated pants trapped in the body of flat front pants?
Is that why you look so blue? Is it because even as a pair you feel alone somehow?
Poor blue pants.
Let me try. I put you on one leg at a time. You seem ok to me. I'm not sure how to match you to my other clothes.
Oh. No. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you were unique...er...special.
No. No. Of course my butt doesn't make you look fat. You look great. I'm serious. I'm not even thinking about khaki.
I didn't say khaki. I said, er, I er.
Don't go blue pants. PLease. Blue is part of your mystique. It's more than a color or simple sadness. You are brooding, intense, artistic.
Oh. Blue pants. Don't cry. Please. No one likes wet pants. Not no one. I'm sorry.
OH. Blue.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Crazy drunk subconcious
Chasing us through my childhood home, Matt was gaining on Reuben and me
as we let out peals of laughter. We raced out the front door and down
the steps. Psychically, telepathically, suddenly, we stopped where the
steps made a left. As Matt came upon us, we grabbed him and tossed him
over the railing. He flew down the hill of the front yard and landed
sprawled face up on the driveway. I don't remember the sound he made,
but SPLAT could not be too far off. Reuben and I quickly made our way
down to his covered body and the newly forming pool of blood. There was
no screaming, only silent fear as a small crowd of indistinct people
gathered. Uncovering Matt, we found that his head and body were nearly
separate. We removed body from head, figuring it needed to be done and placing the former out of the way. I gave my sister a shout and instructed, "Get Mom and Dad. Or call
911. Or both!" She disappeared inside.
Matt's severed head began begging for a glass of water. With the wisdom
that only comes in dreams, we decided severed heads are better off
without glasses of water. Minutes passed before it occurred to me that
my sister must not have alerted either party as I'd instructed. I ran
into the house, found my sister in her old room chatting with her
husband. Furious and frightened, I cursed in her direction. "FU#$!,
FU**! "What the FU**?!?"
Without waiting for a response, I ran to the phone and dialed 911.
"Help, I need help. My friend is dying."
The dispatcher calmly asked for my phone number.
Stuck in 10-digit dialing mode I gave it, "816-401- I can't remember
the rest. Oh. GOD!" I searched the nearby area desperately.
"It's ok. I should be able to find you from that."
After a pause she said, "Are you at," I heard her voice give me an
address, but I was in too much of a rush to hear it. "Can you confirm
that?" she asked.
"Yes. Please hurry." I whined.
The next thing I knew we were driving higher into the suburbs. Reuben
was at the wheel. Kim, Matt's wife, was riding shotgun. Matt's severed
head and I were in the backseat. The head was not bouncing around on
the seat, nor was it floating. He just sat normally, staring ahead. He
was probably not happy with being in the back seat, but he accepted it
without an audible complaint. At the top of the hill we drove past a
lone white house with a lone tree in the yard. Turning into a
parking lot, Kim, silent until now, began tearfully telling us that
this same thing had happened to her mom. Her dad was actually her mom's
second husband as the first one had died in a freak accident. She began
to wail as the tears spilled from all of us. "I don't want that to
happen to me."
Recovering his composure first, Reuben made for the nearest hospital as
we all quietly sniffled. I called my parents.
They were frantic.
"The ambulance showed up and you weren't here. They are going to charge
you thousands of dollars. You were really irresponsible- leaving like
that with the ambulance coming." They scolded. "You're going to pay the
bill when it comes. We aren't." The rant against me and my lack of
sense continued, but somewhere during a story about the man in the
ambulance with a bad back I put the phone down.
We piled out of the car and rushed into the mall. I was in the lead and
knew exactly where I was headed. I even managed to do a little
fast-paced window shopping. Increasing the pace, a full-bodied Matt
overtook me muttering, "I've got to tell them I wasn't murdered."
Then I woke up.
Chasing us through my childhood home, Matt was gaining on Reuben and me
as we let out peals of laughter. We raced out the front door and down
the steps. Psychically, telepathically, suddenly, we stopped where the
steps made a left. As Matt came upon us, we grabbed him and tossed him
over the railing. He flew down the hill of the front yard and landed
sprawled face up on the driveway. I don't remember the sound he made,
but SPLAT could not be too far off. Reuben and I quickly made our way
down to his covered body and the newly forming pool of blood. There was
no screaming, only silent fear as a small crowd of indistinct people
gathered. Uncovering Matt, we found that his head and body were nearly
separate. We removed body from head, figuring it needed to be done and placing the former out of the way. I gave my sister a shout and instructed, "Get Mom and Dad. Or call
911. Or both!" She disappeared inside.
Matt's severed head began begging for a glass of water. With the wisdom
that only comes in dreams, we decided severed heads are better off
without glasses of water. Minutes passed before it occurred to me that
my sister must not have alerted either party as I'd instructed. I ran
into the house, found my sister in her old room chatting with her
husband. Furious and frightened, I cursed in her direction. "FU#$!,
FU**! "What the FU**?!?"
Without waiting for a response, I ran to the phone and dialed 911.
"Help, I need help. My friend is dying."
The dispatcher calmly asked for my phone number.
Stuck in 10-digit dialing mode I gave it, "816-401- I can't remember
the rest. Oh. GOD!" I searched the nearby area desperately.
"It's ok. I should be able to find you from that."
After a pause she said, "Are you at," I heard her voice give me an
address, but I was in too much of a rush to hear it. "Can you confirm
that?" she asked.
"Yes. Please hurry." I whined.
The next thing I knew we were driving higher into the suburbs. Reuben
was at the wheel. Kim, Matt's wife, was riding shotgun. Matt's severed
head and I were in the backseat. The head was not bouncing around on
the seat, nor was it floating. He just sat normally, staring ahead. He
was probably not happy with being in the back seat, but he accepted it
without an audible complaint. At the top of the hill we drove past a
lone white house with a lone tree in the yard. Turning into a
parking lot, Kim, silent until now, began tearfully telling us that
this same thing had happened to her mom. Her dad was actually her mom's
second husband as the first one had died in a freak accident. She began
to wail as the tears spilled from all of us. "I don't want that to
happen to me."
Recovering his composure first, Reuben made for the nearest hospital as
we all quietly sniffled. I called my parents.
They were frantic.
"The ambulance showed up and you weren't here. They are going to charge
you thousands of dollars. You were really irresponsible- leaving like
that with the ambulance coming." They scolded. "You're going to pay the
bill when it comes. We aren't." The rant against me and my lack of
sense continued, but somewhere during a story about the man in the
ambulance with a bad back I put the phone down.
We piled out of the car and rushed into the mall. I was in the lead and
knew exactly where I was headed. I even managed to do a little
fast-paced window shopping. Increasing the pace, a full-bodied Matt
overtook me muttering, "I've got to tell them I wasn't murdered."
Then I woke up.
Friday, June 25, 2004
76,000 trombones
In terms of music I was stuck on "Oldies 95" all through my teens. In college I advanced all the way to the mainstream alternative radio stations. In the last year or so, I've discovered that there is a heckuva lot of cool music out there that I want to hear. I'm trying not to panic while I decide how and how much energy I am going to use to attack this particular phenomenon.
Some artists I am not buying at the moment include Modest Mouse, (They've actually lost a coin flip for 3 days running. "Heads I buy the new CD, tails I don't." TAILS. Every day. What are the odds? Please don't tell me, Rob. It's an expression.) Dashboard Confessional, 12 cents for Marvin, Death Cab for Cutie, The Pink Panther Penthouse Party, Glenn Miller, Fats Domino, Alison Krauss, Bela Fleck, Belle and Sebastian, Wilco and Josh Ritter.
In terms of music I was stuck on "Oldies 95" all through my teens. In college I advanced all the way to the mainstream alternative radio stations. In the last year or so, I've discovered that there is a heckuva lot of cool music out there that I want to hear. I'm trying not to panic while I decide how and how much energy I am going to use to attack this particular phenomenon.
Some artists I am not buying at the moment include Modest Mouse, (They've actually lost a coin flip for 3 days running. "Heads I buy the new CD, tails I don't." TAILS. Every day. What are the odds? Please don't tell me, Rob. It's an expression.) Dashboard Confessional, 12 cents for Marvin, Death Cab for Cutie, The Pink Panther Penthouse Party, Glenn Miller, Fats Domino, Alison Krauss, Bela Fleck, Belle and Sebastian, Wilco and Josh Ritter.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
I know that everything sucks
YEA! This Reel Big Fish song kind of sums up my mood for the day. I'm boppin' and singin' that everything sucks so much that I almost forgot to notice that I'm in a fabulous mood. That's part of the beauty of ska music. With the horns and the "dance-your-crazy-dance" sound, they can say just about anything and it makes me want to nod and say "Yea! Right on Ska-band! Everything does suck! Let's keep it sucking! WOOHOO. I didn't need that leg anyway."
YEA! This Reel Big Fish song kind of sums up my mood for the day. I'm boppin' and singin' that everything sucks so much that I almost forgot to notice that I'm in a fabulous mood. That's part of the beauty of ska music. With the horns and the "dance-your-crazy-dance" sound, they can say just about anything and it makes me want to nod and say "Yea! Right on Ska-band! Everything does suck! Let's keep it sucking! WOOHOO. I didn't need that leg anyway."
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
I'm chatting with my-se-helf hooHOO.
Hey you in your new blue pants and your sharp red shirt. You're sexy.
Me? I'm not sexy. I'm just chowing down on my Spam and brown rice trying to plan an evening.
Nah. You're cherry man, you're one small leap away from having it all. You're going places.
Come on. I'm not going anywhere. I've still got pictures to develop and bikes to paint. I can't go anywhere yet. I need a Presta valve.
Aw, babe. You can do it all, man. You're running around. You're robbing banks all whacked out on scooby snacks.
Are you sure it was "whacked out"?
Are you sure it wasn't?
No.
Ok then.
Hey you in your new blue pants and your sharp red shirt. You're sexy.
Me? I'm not sexy. I'm just chowing down on my Spam and brown rice trying to plan an evening.
Nah. You're cherry man, you're one small leap away from having it all. You're going places.
Come on. I'm not going anywhere. I've still got pictures to develop and bikes to paint. I can't go anywhere yet. I need a Presta valve.
Aw, babe. You can do it all, man. You're running around. You're robbing banks all whacked out on scooby snacks.
Are you sure it was "whacked out"?
Are you sure it wasn't?
No.
Ok then.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Can't afford to go. Can't afford to stay.
When did camping become a 30-dollar-a-night activity?
I thought it was just KOA with their overpriced ground space, but it's almost everybody. I just want some ground, people. I just want it for a night or so. Why, they're selling whole mountains for cheaper than they rent tent sites. No wonder people are falling asleep at the wheel. They can't afford to pull over. Next thing we know gas prices will be more than 2 dollars a gallon, or, uh, more. Talk about intense, no, wait, that was the first bit.
Maybe everybody should just stay home. Too bad we can't afford rent or a mortgage either...
When did camping become a 30-dollar-a-night activity?
I thought it was just KOA with their overpriced ground space, but it's almost everybody. I just want some ground, people. I just want it for a night or so. Why, they're selling whole mountains for cheaper than they rent tent sites. No wonder people are falling asleep at the wheel. They can't afford to pull over. Next thing we know gas prices will be more than 2 dollars a gallon, or, uh, more. Talk about intense, no, wait, that was the first bit.
Maybe everybody should just stay home. Too bad we can't afford rent or a mortgage either...
One more for the kiddies
So I've made eye contact with this woman three times already. The third time she says hello and I might have said "hi" back or grunted or given her a nod. Then I see her a fourth time and we make eye contact again.
She says, "See you later."
I can't just leave it at that. Four times we've made eye contact. I've fallen in love, gotten married, had babies and been tragically widowed in less eye contact than that.
So I throw out a question for her, one that pertains to the context of our setting. She answers and asks me the same question. I answer. She tells me about the setting last year. We laugh, sorta. And then we say see you. I don't know that we will though.
As I drive away, I'm thinking about the "Celestine Prophecy" and I'm wondering. Was I supposed to talk to her to find out that it rained at this time last year? Or did I just miss something bigger?
And then it hits me. And then I forget what hits me. And the next thing you know I'm blogging about it and you're reading it and searching for the punchline or the moral and find...nothing.
Sometimes that's the way it is kiddies. Sometimes that's the way it is.
So I've made eye contact with this woman three times already. The third time she says hello and I might have said "hi" back or grunted or given her a nod. Then I see her a fourth time and we make eye contact again.
She says, "See you later."
I can't just leave it at that. Four times we've made eye contact. I've fallen in love, gotten married, had babies and been tragically widowed in less eye contact than that.
So I throw out a question for her, one that pertains to the context of our setting. She answers and asks me the same question. I answer. She tells me about the setting last year. We laugh, sorta. And then we say see you. I don't know that we will though.
As I drive away, I'm thinking about the "Celestine Prophecy" and I'm wondering. Was I supposed to talk to her to find out that it rained at this time last year? Or did I just miss something bigger?
And then it hits me. And then I forget what hits me. And the next thing you know I'm blogging about it and you're reading it and searching for the punchline or the moral and find...nothing.
Sometimes that's the way it is kiddies. Sometimes that's the way it is.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Is that how distance runners get their thrills?
I raced a 5k on Sunday. Pre-race I had talked myself into slowing the pace down to just get a feel for what it would be like to run with people around- like it will be in the marathon. I was even prepared to run my slowest timed 5k ever.
"Ready. Set. GO!" I sauntered off the starting line somewhere near the middle of the pack content to let the leaders leave me far behind. Not real content though. I slowly picked up the pace as we cruised along. I was picking off people left and right until I moved into some open space. The leaders were out of sight on the windy roads, but I had found a more suitable, not to mention more familiar and eventually more physically painful, pace and so I focused in on the back of an older gentleman in a white jersey. I noticed that he looked at his watch as we crossed the mile. I thought I might just speed up and ask him what we ran, figuring I could add 5 or 6 seconds to his time. The move proved a difficult one. Actually, it didn't really materialize at all and near mile two I had lost a few seconds on the fellow.
About that time, a club runner came up on my shoulder intent on passing me. Still feeling relatively strong, I was just as intent on not letting him pass. He surged up into my peripheral vision and I surged forward. He let up slightly and I let up slightly. He surged again, not into my vision, but I could hear him. So I surged again. This time I didn't stop my surge until he was out of earshot. I never looked back, but the next time I looked up I was near the man in white. As we neared "Heartbreak Hill" I overtook the gentleman. And then the heartbreak began. I slowed and he passed me. Inside my head it sounded like a convention for losers "I don't care if he beats me. I don't care if everybody beats me. Who cares?" My pace slowed accordingly. White jersey man began to pull away, when some positive thinking kicked in. "I CARE. LET'S GO." I charged up the hill after the man. I passed him again and again I slowed.
As we crested the hill there were 300 meters left. White jersey man was closing on me again. My legs were slowing. I dug down once more and got my legs moving as fast as I thought they could go for 40 more seconds. I didn't catch the next guy, but I pulled away from my rival for the day.
I'd improved on my previous 5k time because of those two guys, my training, and perhaps because of a slower start.
5k's are familiar territory, though. I've got a lot to learn before the marathon. Like patience.
I raced a 5k on Sunday. Pre-race I had talked myself into slowing the pace down to just get a feel for what it would be like to run with people around- like it will be in the marathon. I was even prepared to run my slowest timed 5k ever.
"Ready. Set. GO!" I sauntered off the starting line somewhere near the middle of the pack content to let the leaders leave me far behind. Not real content though. I slowly picked up the pace as we cruised along. I was picking off people left and right until I moved into some open space. The leaders were out of sight on the windy roads, but I had found a more suitable, not to mention more familiar and eventually more physically painful, pace and so I focused in on the back of an older gentleman in a white jersey. I noticed that he looked at his watch as we crossed the mile. I thought I might just speed up and ask him what we ran, figuring I could add 5 or 6 seconds to his time. The move proved a difficult one. Actually, it didn't really materialize at all and near mile two I had lost a few seconds on the fellow.
About that time, a club runner came up on my shoulder intent on passing me. Still feeling relatively strong, I was just as intent on not letting him pass. He surged up into my peripheral vision and I surged forward. He let up slightly and I let up slightly. He surged again, not into my vision, but I could hear him. So I surged again. This time I didn't stop my surge until he was out of earshot. I never looked back, but the next time I looked up I was near the man in white. As we neared "Heartbreak Hill" I overtook the gentleman. And then the heartbreak began. I slowed and he passed me. Inside my head it sounded like a convention for losers "I don't care if he beats me. I don't care if everybody beats me. Who cares?" My pace slowed accordingly. White jersey man began to pull away, when some positive thinking kicked in. "I CARE. LET'S GO." I charged up the hill after the man. I passed him again and again I slowed.
As we crested the hill there were 300 meters left. White jersey man was closing on me again. My legs were slowing. I dug down once more and got my legs moving as fast as I thought they could go for 40 more seconds. I didn't catch the next guy, but I pulled away from my rival for the day.
I'd improved on my previous 5k time because of those two guys, my training, and perhaps because of a slower start.
5k's are familiar territory, though. I've got a lot to learn before the marathon. Like patience.
This quote about s-e-x amuses me
From Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides, “So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.”
Knitting is being compared to golf on NPR
Something about fetishes. I'm very confused. I might have understood if it had been about frustrations.
Now you have more time to train, Justin
From Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides, “So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.”
Knitting is being compared to golf on NPR
Something about fetishes. I'm very confused. I might have understood if it had been about frustrations.
Now you have more time to train, Justin
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Special Message to Justin
It's time. Or it will be the weekend we celebrate our independence. Any chance everyone isn't leaving town?
It's time. Or it will be the weekend we celebrate our independence. Any chance everyone isn't leaving town?
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Father's Day is Sunday
My pappy, as I've never called him, is a rather smart man. I read something today that said at about age 6 you realize your dad doesn't know everything. I think it took me until at least 13, and sometimes I still forget. At 13 I was in my dad's science class, he being a teacher at the middle school and me being a student. It wasn't his class that made me question his wealth of knowledge. It was Algebra. He could do Algebra, certainly. Every so often though it took him some time to figure it out. Ten years of school and this was the first time my father had paused to figure something out. That's smart. He could probably kick your tail at Scattergories.
Dad is an athlete too. He might tell you that he wasn't. He sat the bench in high school football. He wrestled, or played table tennis, or racket ball, or whatever else they needed another man for to score another point for his fraternity. There were no letters, no accolades, no trophies to show off. Like the tortoise and the hare fable, the longer the race went on, the closer he moved to the front. The star athletes developed their beer bellies and love handles and soon just stopped playing. Their exercise was swinging a club and riding a cart. His was riding a bike. Everyday. To and from work. And so his average basketball skills suddenly seemed top notch, especially since few other dad's even found their way outside. And still he rides into retirement, still able to hop off and get in a basketball game, or go for a run, or most anything else. His game hasn't fallen off much as far as I can tell, but everyone else around him has.
Dad is part nomad. He likes to go. Camping is the cheap way to spend the night on your way somewhere. My uncle tried to explain that he and my dad had differing opinions on camping. For Dad, it's a means to an end. For my uncle, it's an end. I told my uncle that I understood, but that my dad's opinions had a funny way of becoming my opinions. And they have. My approach to sports, to camping, to religion, and probably to life are pretty similar. We have a few differences, but they seem to get fuzzier the farther along we get in this little journey.
Dad is clever. It's a kind of a bad pun, silly poetry sort of clever. The kind that's sometimes too clever for it's own good. That may seem familiar to you.
Dad can teach. There's a reason we share so many opinions. He's been teaching me since before I knew it. He did it with style. Some of the kids fondly called him "Crazy A". He liked his experiements, and his accents. I remember a Swedish Cross Country skier teaching us about force. And I'm pretty sure the lesson on hypothesis was set to the tune of "Things that make you go Hmmm." Thank you C&C music factory. I was bound to pick up a few things along the way.
Was dancing one of them? Dad can dance. This is a more recent development. Last weekend as I'd ask a young woman to dance, I'd have to point to my father and say, "I can't dance like that, you know?" The young ladies didn't seem to mind.
Maybe it's because I've started to look like him too.
My pappy, as I've never called him, is a rather smart man. I read something today that said at about age 6 you realize your dad doesn't know everything. I think it took me until at least 13, and sometimes I still forget. At 13 I was in my dad's science class, he being a teacher at the middle school and me being a student. It wasn't his class that made me question his wealth of knowledge. It was Algebra. He could do Algebra, certainly. Every so often though it took him some time to figure it out. Ten years of school and this was the first time my father had paused to figure something out. That's smart. He could probably kick your tail at Scattergories.
Dad is an athlete too. He might tell you that he wasn't. He sat the bench in high school football. He wrestled, or played table tennis, or racket ball, or whatever else they needed another man for to score another point for his fraternity. There were no letters, no accolades, no trophies to show off. Like the tortoise and the hare fable, the longer the race went on, the closer he moved to the front. The star athletes developed their beer bellies and love handles and soon just stopped playing. Their exercise was swinging a club and riding a cart. His was riding a bike. Everyday. To and from work. And so his average basketball skills suddenly seemed top notch, especially since few other dad's even found their way outside. And still he rides into retirement, still able to hop off and get in a basketball game, or go for a run, or most anything else. His game hasn't fallen off much as far as I can tell, but everyone else around him has.
Dad is part nomad. He likes to go. Camping is the cheap way to spend the night on your way somewhere. My uncle tried to explain that he and my dad had differing opinions on camping. For Dad, it's a means to an end. For my uncle, it's an end. I told my uncle that I understood, but that my dad's opinions had a funny way of becoming my opinions. And they have. My approach to sports, to camping, to religion, and probably to life are pretty similar. We have a few differences, but they seem to get fuzzier the farther along we get in this little journey.
Dad is clever. It's a kind of a bad pun, silly poetry sort of clever. The kind that's sometimes too clever for it's own good. That may seem familiar to you.
Dad can teach. There's a reason we share so many opinions. He's been teaching me since before I knew it. He did it with style. Some of the kids fondly called him "Crazy A". He liked his experiements, and his accents. I remember a Swedish Cross Country skier teaching us about force. And I'm pretty sure the lesson on hypothesis was set to the tune of "Things that make you go Hmmm." Thank you C&C music factory. I was bound to pick up a few things along the way.
Was dancing one of them? Dad can dance. This is a more recent development. Last weekend as I'd ask a young woman to dance, I'd have to point to my father and say, "I can't dance like that, you know?" The young ladies didn't seem to mind.
Maybe it's because I've started to look like him too.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Sisterella
As she stood up in that gazebo holding hands with her soon-to-be husband, it all looked so natural. The strapless white dress was her innocent skin. The veil and the tiara a part of her hair as far back as I could remember. Although the bridesmaids and groomsmen have two, three, or ten inches on the couple in the pictures, that day no two were taller. They fit like they'd always been together at once larger-than-life and tiny perfect puzzle pieces. Smiles shown like sun and stars. My beautiful little sister was growing a family before our eyes and connecting each of us as she did.
The night before at the rehearsal dinner, almost everyone cried, but on this day fewer tears fell. It was quiet, a calm sort, perhaps the sort that only an outdoor wedding not far from the Rockies can have. The earlier rain shower which had elicited some sobs itself, now did seem to bring "good luck" as so many claimed it would. For what better luck than to watch two wonderful kids become one wonderful couple in front of friends and family.
The reception was in the style one would expect of those less accustomed to the grandeur that the ceremony had promised; for ceremonies are about an elegant ideal of love, but receptions are about a crazy little thing called fun. The transition from elegance to fun was a touch rough, but when the crowd finally found its middle-class stride it soared. Through country and R and B that crowd took Backstreets all N'Sync. They swung until they landed right back in the land of elegance, or as close as anyone can get when they take away the whistles. And so,
with all the trappings of a fairy tale, their court cheered as the Mr. and Mrs. kissed and were carried off in a horse drawn carriage.
As she stood up in that gazebo holding hands with her soon-to-be husband, it all looked so natural. The strapless white dress was her innocent skin. The veil and the tiara a part of her hair as far back as I could remember. Although the bridesmaids and groomsmen have two, three, or ten inches on the couple in the pictures, that day no two were taller. They fit like they'd always been together at once larger-than-life and tiny perfect puzzle pieces. Smiles shown like sun and stars. My beautiful little sister was growing a family before our eyes and connecting each of us as she did.
The night before at the rehearsal dinner, almost everyone cried, but on this day fewer tears fell. It was quiet, a calm sort, perhaps the sort that only an outdoor wedding not far from the Rockies can have. The earlier rain shower which had elicited some sobs itself, now did seem to bring "good luck" as so many claimed it would. For what better luck than to watch two wonderful kids become one wonderful couple in front of friends and family.
The reception was in the style one would expect of those less accustomed to the grandeur that the ceremony had promised; for ceremonies are about an elegant ideal of love, but receptions are about a crazy little thing called fun. The transition from elegance to fun was a touch rough, but when the crowd finally found its middle-class stride it soared. Through country and R and B that crowd took Backstreets all N'Sync. They swung until they landed right back in the land of elegance, or as close as anyone can get when they take away the whistles. And so,
with all the trappings of a fairy tale, their court cheered as the Mr. and Mrs. kissed and were carried off in a horse drawn carriage.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Hypothetically, how did it go?
Perhaps the expectation level had already risen a tad too high when I returned from her place of employment, flashed my poolside family a thumbs up and then cowered as they erupted in cheers. The whoops were deafening as they bounced off water and tile.
I slept fitfully and no one will ever know if it was because my sister was about to get married or if it was due to the date that may or may not count. Looking back, I'm a little embarrassed that it may have been the latter. A crush that lasted longer than a Metro stop has to be some sort of modern-day record for me. Admittedly, it was probably fueled by the fact that for once I had taken at least some action rather than sitting silently averting my eyes. Or maybe my mule into the Grand Canyon had jarred feeling loose again. Whatever it was, I created a drama that wouldn't unfold, at least not in a night where the eyes were deservedly on my sister and her new husband.
Once seating worked out and the lovely woman was eating dinner beside me, my conversational wizardry was unable to hold her interest for long. I was painfully aware that I was no match for her orthodontist*. When the much anticipated dancing finally arrived, I had already conceded that there was no reason for me to hang around her end of the dance floor and hope like a 7th-grader that maybe we'd dance. I felt a twinge of guilt that soon passed as I managed to find dance partner after dance partner. In a rare move for me, I abandoned "riding the pony" and the infamous "Stayin' Alive Disco manuever" for partner dancing. The moments of silliness were still there and I stepped on more feet than usual, but I had a good time and I have to think that others did too. I rhumba-ed with former neighbors, tango-ed with long lost pals, dipped cousins, do-si-doed Uncles, butt-bounced Aunts, and spun anyone I could, even the beautiful bride.
Lest you think I completely forgot my date, I did squeeze in one, a little swing that made it all worthwhile. Somewhere there while we were spinning to Glenn Miller, I caught that smile- the real genuine fantastic sort of smile that melts yours truly. How did it go? In that instant, with those big brown eyes about to spin away and those fine pearly whites gleaming (my thanks to the orthodonist after all) it went splendidly, thank you.
*That's no metaphor, he was the Maid of Honor's Dad.
Perhaps the expectation level had already risen a tad too high when I returned from her place of employment, flashed my poolside family a thumbs up and then cowered as they erupted in cheers. The whoops were deafening as they bounced off water and tile.
I slept fitfully and no one will ever know if it was because my sister was about to get married or if it was due to the date that may or may not count. Looking back, I'm a little embarrassed that it may have been the latter. A crush that lasted longer than a Metro stop has to be some sort of modern-day record for me. Admittedly, it was probably fueled by the fact that for once I had taken at least some action rather than sitting silently averting my eyes. Or maybe my mule into the Grand Canyon had jarred feeling loose again. Whatever it was, I created a drama that wouldn't unfold, at least not in a night where the eyes were deservedly on my sister and her new husband.
Once seating worked out and the lovely woman was eating dinner beside me, my conversational wizardry was unable to hold her interest for long. I was painfully aware that I was no match for her orthodontist*. When the much anticipated dancing finally arrived, I had already conceded that there was no reason for me to hang around her end of the dance floor and hope like a 7th-grader that maybe we'd dance. I felt a twinge of guilt that soon passed as I managed to find dance partner after dance partner. In a rare move for me, I abandoned "riding the pony" and the infamous "Stayin' Alive Disco manuever" for partner dancing. The moments of silliness were still there and I stepped on more feet than usual, but I had a good time and I have to think that others did too. I rhumba-ed with former neighbors, tango-ed with long lost pals, dipped cousins, do-si-doed Uncles, butt-bounced Aunts, and spun anyone I could, even the beautiful bride.
Lest you think I completely forgot my date, I did squeeze in one, a little swing that made it all worthwhile. Somewhere there while we were spinning to Glenn Miller, I caught that smile- the real genuine fantastic sort of smile that melts yours truly. How did it go? In that instant, with those big brown eyes about to spin away and those fine pearly whites gleaming (my thanks to the orthodonist after all) it went splendidly, thank you.
*That's no metaphor, he was the Maid of Honor's Dad.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Does it count?
Fort Collins, CO- In 2004, I have been challenged to go on a date. It's June. Six months have passed, six months are left. Let's check in.
First, we have to ask, "What is a date?"
Or as my young cousin who I call Tedward would say, "What isn't a date?" He's very helpful that way. A date isn't two friends going to dinner and a party. A date isn't making a dancing buddy while watching a Denver-based band "12 cents for Marvin", no matter what that dancing buddy looks like. That does seem like it's getting closer though, doesn't it?
Here's a hypothetical for you:
Let's just say that two people were going to the same wedding at the end of a week. And let's say that one of them is really cute, gorgeous even, and the other one is me, and all of the good that comes with that. And let's just say that the me one overheard a conversation that involved the gorgeous one trying to decide if she should bring a date to the wedding. And let's say that the me one jumped in and said, "I'll be your date." Moments later the me one realized that perhaps, asking would be a better tactic and amended the previous statement by shouting up the stairs, "K__, will you go to the wedding with me?" And let's say that K__ said, "sure." Then we'll say that my sister chimed in and said, "You can still bring someone if you want." Then after the door was shut the me one might have said sarcastically, "Thanks, alot. As if I don't have enough trouble anyway."
Is it a date, hypothetically of course?
Fort Collins, CO- In 2004, I have been challenged to go on a date. It's June. Six months have passed, six months are left. Let's check in.
First, we have to ask, "What is a date?"
Or as my young cousin who I call Tedward would say, "What isn't a date?" He's very helpful that way. A date isn't two friends going to dinner and a party. A date isn't making a dancing buddy while watching a Denver-based band "12 cents for Marvin", no matter what that dancing buddy looks like. That does seem like it's getting closer though, doesn't it?
Here's a hypothetical for you:
Let's just say that two people were going to the same wedding at the end of a week. And let's say that one of them is really cute, gorgeous even, and the other one is me, and all of the good that comes with that. And let's just say that the me one overheard a conversation that involved the gorgeous one trying to decide if she should bring a date to the wedding. And let's say that the me one jumped in and said, "I'll be your date." Moments later the me one realized that perhaps, asking would be a better tactic and amended the previous statement by shouting up the stairs, "K__, will you go to the wedding with me?" And let's say that K__ said, "sure." Then we'll say that my sister chimed in and said, "You can still bring someone if you want." Then after the door was shut the me one might have said sarcastically, "Thanks, alot. As if I don't have enough trouble anyway."
Is it a date, hypothetically of course?
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
It could be the brewery tour talking
Fort Collins- I went through my old home town of Granby and it brought back a lot of memories. Like the time I walked half a mile to 7-11, just so I could call the stupid phone company and tell them to fix my phone. Or my first visit to the local bar where a 60+ year old local schooled my new friends and I in pool. Or the time my friends stole a golf cart and ended up in prison for Grand Theft Auto. It felt a little like my insides were exploding part of the time. Then again it was nothing like the rampage of this angry Granby resident.
Fort Collins- I went through my old home town of Granby and it brought back a lot of memories. Like the time I walked half a mile to 7-11, just so I could call the stupid phone company and tell them to fix my phone. Or my first visit to the local bar where a 60+ year old local schooled my new friends and I in pool. Or the time my friends stole a golf cart and ended up in prison for Grand Theft Auto. It felt a little like my insides were exploding part of the time. Then again it was nothing like the rampage of this angry Granby resident.
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